


Heart's Desire

by HarrogateBelmont



Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Harry Potter Crossover - Freeform, Mirror of Erised, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-17
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-15 19:21:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28818459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HarrogateBelmont/pseuds/HarrogateBelmont
Summary: A mysterious client shows up in Denmark Street to request Strike's assistance in locating a valuable artifact. But what will Strike discover about himself along the way?
Relationships: Robin Ellacott/Cormoran Strike
Comments: 14
Kudos: 36





	Heart's Desire

**Author's Note:**

  * For [meansovermotive](https://archiveofourown.org/users/meansovermotive/gifts).



> I've been thinking about some sort of HP/Strike crossover for a while, and was watching the first film with my family Friday when this idea popped into my head and wouldn't leave. I am so grateful to @meansovermotive for inspiring me in the first place with her fic last week, and also for her excellent suggestions, which truly made this story come together more cohesively. I don't think it’s really necessary to know the Harry Potter universe to understand what's going on here (so for those who don't know, Kingsley Shacklebolt is a "real" HP character - an accomplished wizard and is serving as Minister of Magic at the time of this story)!

Strike used the key that he’d been given by his client to unlock the chain that secured the dented metal door to the warehouse. It was one of their more unusual cases, to be sure, and Strike wanted to get a sense of the situation before bringing in the rest of the staff for what would likely amount to a scavenger hunt.

The client, who had arrived in the office without an appointment the previous afternoon, had been a commanding presence. He was as tall as Strike, broad, and bald, with a single gold hoop in one of his ears. He had been wearing an outfit whose cultural background Strike could not assess, but which consisted of a sort of robe in deep, jewel tones. There was something archaic about his mannerisms. Despite the fact that the agency had quite a long waiting list, they had closed a case only that morning, and the man had somehow charmed Pat into persuading Strike to meet with him. Mr. Shacklebolt had insisted that the job he was asking the agency to perform would be quick, straightforward, and would only take one or two days. Strike had called Robin, who had been watching a mark across town, given her the details, and she had agreed that it might be a nice break to take on a case that involved looking for something, instead of someone.

Shacklebolt claimed to be an art collector, a fact that Strike had been able to confirm to some degree later that evening. He had told Strike that he housed some of the less important pieces in his collection in an old warehouse, but that he had recently learned that one item held considerable value. He claimed to have developed a rather severe dust allergy and could not spend hours in the space looking, and he had been less-than-meticulous in documenting how he had deposited items in the warehouse. There was something suspicious in this story to Strike, and he wondered, as always, what information his prospective client was omitting. 

After much questioning, he learned that Shacklebolt did have an assistant, but that he had some suspicions about the young man’s integrity, and he made it clear that he did not wish to elaborate. Shacklebolt had provided proof of ownership of the warehouse, and had indicated that Henry Drummond had recommended Strike as a person who would be able to handle the case with speed and confidentiality. 

Shacklebolt had shown Strike an ink drawing of what looked like a rather mundane golden trophy, with some distinct engravings along the edge. He had offered to pay the agency’s hourly rate for however long it might take to find the object, along with a substantial finder’s fee when the item was located.

So the following morning, Strike had driven over to the warehouse, which was located on the outskirts of the city, to scope out the situation and try to determine how difficult this job may be. Shacklebolt had handed over a key at that initial meeting, but did not wish to accompany him, instead providing what he considered to be several useful tips to hasten the search.

Pulling the door towards him, Strike peered into the space, which was lit by the light streaming in from large windows from high above. He pocketed the padlock, and, after a moment’s thought, pulled the chain off the door as well. He had given Pat and Robin his destination coordinates, but it was better to be safe than sorry. Noticing a stray box just inside the doorway, he bent down and pulled it over to the door, propping it open slightly.

The room was very large and cool. Strike was glad for his overcoat, and he pulled at the collar a bit, as he scrutinized what he saw. Rows and rows of metal shelving occupied the center of the space, but Strike was not sure what purpose they served, for there were piles of junk everywhere - on the floors and shoved against the walls. In some cases, an entire range of shelves might be empty, but the path through them was blocked with paintings and furniture and marble statues sitting in the aisle. 

Strike sighed. It all looked like rejects to him. He pulled out his phone and snapped a few photographs. Roaming up and down aisles as best he could, he wasn’t so much looking for the trophy, which Shacklebolt had described as being approximately two feet tall, as trying to devise the best strategy for moving through the space in the shortest time possible. Everything was very dusty, and he made a mental note to pick up some masks for himself and the staff on their return visit. The dust also made it impossible to tell wood from metal from glass. 

Skirting the perimeter, Strike walked slowly, counting shelves and trying to estimate the number of objects in the room. As he reached the far corner of the space, turning to continue his surveillance, a glint of light caught Strike’s eye. Against the opposite wall, in the corner, something that looked vaguely like a life-size portrait was sitting, quite apart from anything else. As Strike drew closer, he noted that it was, in fact, some sort of mirror, and that it was not covered in the same level of dust and grime as the other detritus in the room. He made a mental note to ask the client about it, as Shacklebolt had been adamant that no one had entered this particular storage space in five years or longer.

The mirror was very large - it towered far above Strike’s head, and as he approached, he could see that the frame was ornate, and likely made of gold. He stopped in front of it, taken aback, as he often was, whenever he caught a sight of himself, full-sized, in any reflection.

He paused, surprised to notice that his new exercise regimen appeared to be working. He had made a resolution on his fortieth birthday to improve his health - he was swimming frequently, and trying to eat less, even if he still couldn’t drum up enthusiasm for a salad. He thought he looked slimmer, in fact, he wondered if this was some sort of funhouse mirror - because he looked as fit as he had been in the army.

The man staring back at him from the mirror looked so healthy, that Strike squared his shoulders, and, shaking his head at his own ridiculousness, peeled off his overcoat, letting it fall to the floor. Definitely slimmer. He pulled at his jumper, lifting it just enough to expose the bottom half of his abdomen, and gasped when he noticed that Strike in the mirror sported a six-pack that he was not sure he had ever owned.

“Well, it’s motivation, at least,” he laughed, bending down to retrieve his coat from the floor. As he did so, he stopped for a moment, and then, on a whim, hitched up his trousers on his right leg. Fully expecting to see the exposed metal of his prosthesis above the sock, he nearly fell over when the reflection in the mirror showed a solid, muscular, and very hairy calf. Strike moved his hand around the prosthesis, feeling cold metal, and then looked back into the mirror. Mirror-Strike’s large hand was circling a very solid, very complete leg. 

Shaking his head, Strike stepped back, and then walked around to the back of the mirror. He didn’t know what he was expecting to find. A power cord? Circuits? Some sort of computer that automatically altered any reflection to appear more attractive, more fit, more…  _ whole _ ? But the back of the mirror was only wood, and as far as Strike could tell, after bending, with difficulty, to run a hand underneath the gap between the frame and the floor, there was no electricity running to it. No cords, and no place to insert a powerful battery. For good measure, he ran his hand over each of the ornate clawed feet that supported the mirror, and although he thought he felt a sort of buzz when his skin made contact, he dismissed it as illogical.

Now standing next to the mirror, Strike surveyed the room from the opposite end from which he entered. He had counted 12 rows of metal shelving, each approximately 30 feet long, and close to eight feet high. Objects of all sorts were stacked even on the highest shelves. He had been on the lookout for a ladder, or even a stepstool, and had seen nothing useful. Taking his notepad out of his pocket, he jotted down some notes that included asking Shacklebolt about the availability of a ladder. If he could task himself, Hutchins, and Robin to spend a day here, methodically going through four sections each, he was confident they would be able to locate the mysterious trophy, if it even really existed. As cluttered and disorganized as the space was, it really did not seem like an insurmountable task, and, frankly, it was easy money.

With another glance across the warehouse, partially hoping that he might see the trophy out of the corner of his eye, Strike put his notepad back in his pocket, and prepared to survey the remaining side of the space, en route to the exit. But as he turned, he couldn’t help himself from looking into the mirror again. There he was, tall, fit, not quite as disheveled as he knew he appeared in real life. Once again, he pulled at the right side of his trouser, and again, a full, complete leg appeared where he knew none existed. Internally chastising himself, he bent down to lean on his left knee, and, with an unsteady hand, he pushed his sock further down on the metal rod at the end of his prosthesis. In the mirror, he did the same, but instead of metal, the action revealed an ankle made of skin and bones, and on that ankle, a distinctive tattoo of a swan, stylized and simple, its neck unusually long and meandering.

Strike toppled onto the ground, landing on his hip, and, groaning, sat for a moment on the grungy floor of the warehouse, unsure what to do next. It was one thing to assume it was a parlor trick, a mirror that somehow airbrushed the viewer into a more physically attractive version of their reflection. But how would the mirror  _ know _ ? Few people did know about the tattoo, which he had chosen not long after his mother’s death, as a small way to keep her memory alive. No one would have cause to remember it apart from Strike, Charlotte, his old girlfriend Tracey, and a few army mates. He had actively hid it from his sister, and his aunt and uncle, but remembering it now reminded him that when he had lost his leg, he had also felt as though he had lost his mother again as well. Wishing, not for the first time this month, that he still had his cigarettes with him, he slowly pulled himself back into a standing position, dusted himself off, and looked once more into the mirror.

Strike could see the warehouse reflected in the mirror behind him. The rows of metal shelving appeared in the background, blurred, as if in an Impressionist painting. The end range of shelves ended about 12 feet from the corner where Strike stood, and he could see a large wooden crate, several paintings, and a grandfather clock stacked against the end.

And then, beside him, a shadow formed. And as he watched, unable to tear his eyes away, a familiar form materialized. A woman, with long, red-gold hair, kind eyes, and a warm smile. 

“What - “ Strike turned around, meaning to ask Robin what she was doing out at this warehouse. Not that he wasn’t happy to see her, but he knew her schedule for the day, and she was currently meant to be on the other side of the city. But when he turned, no one was next to him. 

Strike felt his stomach drop. He turned back to the mirror. Robin was clearly standing beside him, and, as he watched, she snaked an arm around his waist, and rested her other hand on his chest. Strike reached for his chest, looked down, and saw only his own hand there, felt only his own overcoat. Nausea rose within, and, with a great sense of foreboding, reached in his pocket for his phone, and, not taking his eyes off the mirror, called Robin. She answered on the second ring. 

“Hello,” she said. “What’s up?”

“Where are you?” Strike asked, without preamble. 

“Shoreditch, watching Hipster,” she said. “Where are  _ you _ ? Sounds like an echo. Are you at that warehouse?”

“Are you alright?” Strike asked. 

“Cormoran? Is everything okay? I’m fine. Walking down the High Street. Loads of people around.” 

Strike could hear her voice, coming through the phone, but could also see her, in the mirror, leaning her head on his shoulder. He clicked the Facetime button on his phone, and a moment later, Robin’s face appeared in front of him there as well. 

“Yeah, I’m in the warehouse,” he said. Robin looked concerned. Her brow furrowed, and she looked at him for a moment and then looked up. “I’ve got a minute. The Hipster’s just gone into the Pret. What’s going on?”

Strike shook his head. The Robin in the mirror was now facing him, and he was embracing her back. “I just… I… wanted to see if you’d have time to catch up after your shift,” he finished, weakly. 

Robin promised to meet him back at Denmark Street later that afternoon, and Strike ended the call, noting that the Strike in the mirror had not used a phone at all. Mirror-Strike was gazing fondly into the mirror-Robin’s eyes, a look of calm and contentment on his face. 

He watched in fascination. Strike could  _ feel  _ what the Strike in the mirror was feeling. A warmth in his heart, a thrill other places. In truth, he felt this way whenever he was near Robin anymore. And lately, he had felt - he had suspected - he thought he  _ knew _ that she felt the same. He had felt, especially in the past few weeks, that the wall that had kept them apart for so long was deteriorating, melting, dissolving, so that it was so thin and fragile that only a breath would destroy it for good, and allow them to enjoy true happiness together. Looking at them in the mirror, it all felt so tangible.

This wouldn’t do. With difficulty, Strike tore his eyes away. He noticed a filthy and large piece of canvas on the floor beside the mirror. It must have slid off. That would explain how the mirror had managed to escape the dust that plagued everything else in this place. He reached for it, and looked around for something to use to hoist the canvas over the top, to cover this dangerous object. After a few minutes of rummaging among the random statues, vases, chairs, and other random items cluttering the area to the left and right of the mirror, he found a lightweight lamp stand, and, hooking the canvas on the end, attempted to toss it over the mirror. 

It was then that he saw the writing inscribed across the top of the mirror frame.

“ **_Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi_ ** ”

Erised? Not Latin. Not a language familiar to him. He squinted, and then once again, took out his notebook and jotted down the words. 

It only took a moment. He wrote the letters again, this time in reverse order.

**_“I show not your face but your heart’s desire”_ **

Your heart’s desire. 

The canvas fell back to the ground as Strike slowly set down the lamp stand. 

_ Your heart’s desire. _

He stared back into the mirror. Robin in the mirror winked at him, and then, to his shock, she lifted her chin, leaned forward, and kissed him. Strike’s hand rose to his lips, touching them lightly, but mirror-Strike had wrapped his arms around Robin, pulling her close. 

Strike was starting to feel like a voyeur. But he continued to watch for another few seconds, until a loud  _ bang!  _ sounded, echoing throughout the space. He could see in the reflection that something had fallen, hitting the grandfather clock and causing it to wobble, but not fall over. Mirror-Robin pulled away and looked as though she was amused, and Strike could see in the reflection that a rather creepy-looking antique doll had fallen onto the wooden crate and then toppled onto the floor next to it. Mirror-Strike turned and walked across the room to the crate, and opened the lid. His back was to Strike, but after a moment of rummaging, his mirror-reflection turned triumphantly, holding a golden trophy high above his head.

And then, Strike felt something cool in his own hand. Something smooth and metallic, and felt its weight. Barely able to believe or understand what was happening, he looked down to see his own hand grasping a trophy, ornate engravings around its rim. Shaking, Strike placed it on the floor and pulled out his phone again to locate the photograph he had taken of Shacklebolt’s drawing. The markings matched. He turned to look across at the wooden crate, and saw that its lid was open.

Feeling simultaneously wistful and relieved that he wouldn’t return to the warehouse, Strike picked up the trophy by the handle, photographing the open crate as well, just in case it would be important to Shacklebolt and then headed for the exit.

He paused as he replaced the chain, and prepared to secure the padlock. He considered waiting a day or two to alert Shacklebolt about his discovery. Maybe he could return, look in the mirror one more time? Then his phone dinged, and he glanced down to see a message from Robin.

**_Heading back to office. Good stuff on Hipster. Plans tonight? Tottenham or takeaway? Rx_ **

Strike grinned. Takeaway. Definitely takeaway. Tonight would be the night, he decided, and it would be better for them to be alone. While he couldn’t explain what had happened in the warehouse, he knew that whatever he had seen, it had been only a reflection. He was done dwelling in dreams. He didn’t need a mirror to tell him his heart’s desire. He already knew.


End file.
